


assignation

by FunAndWhimsy



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Adrenaline, Assassination Attempt(s), During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Established Relationship, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 06:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23966788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunAndWhimsy/pseuds/FunAndWhimsy
Summary: Hubert has a hunch about Bernadetta, and he gives her a task to confirm he's right. It goes even better than he imagined.
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 9
Kudos: 75
Collections: Hubernie Week





	assignation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Hubernie Week Day 1: Stitches

The plan is the sort of simple that tends to make people who aren't as meticulous as Hubert nervous; rather than controlling for every variable in order to force a situation to his liking, all he's doing is applying pressure and allowing things to play out as they will. The more elements Hubert attempts to manipulate, the greater the chance for error, and when one needs several dozens of things to all go exactly right in order to get what one wants, a single error can ruin the entire affair. Hubert is dealing with someone he has had plenty of opportunity to observe and research, who operates on the sort of rigid principles that make him extremely predictable, and on the off chance it goes wrong Hubert will have expended minimal effort, exposed no agents to discovery, and avoided souring Edelgard's relationship with the man in question so they can try again indefinitely. Far preferable to an elaborate scheme that offers him the false promise of a certain yes in exchange for all the resources at his disposal. 

Hubert is not a man who second guesses himself often, nor is he typically anxious once he has set a plan into motion; if he's worried, he simply delays and refines until he isn't anymore. But tonight he is restless, having to concentrate more than he'd like on refraining from fidgeting or glancing out the window. Thankfully the image he has so carefully cultivated means most people see him with a set jaw and stern brow and assume he is trying to intimidate, though he'd prefer to have a little more control over himself. It's simply been a long time since he added a new variable to his modest bag of tricks, and though he wouldn't have asked if he didn't fully trust her ability to deliver, she is still untested.

The Duke drones on and on about his valor in the war against Dagda and Brigid, already repeating a story he told over dinner either because they are all so similar he can't remember which he's already told or because he has so few. Hubert fiddles with the mirror in his pocket, flashing a signal out the window, and waits. Edelgard nods, and smiles, and agrees or praises as necessary during the Duke's expectant pauses, though of course her war stories put his own to shame. An arrow strikes Hubert in the arm, and he cries out and falls to the ground as if he's not somewhat used to the occurrence.

(In fairness, when archers target Hubert it is generally because they lack the experience necessary to avoid foes who can strike back at range; it has been some time since he's been struck by someone so gifted with a bow, and he is a little surprised to find the arrow didn't pierce the bone and come through the other side.)

"Hubert!" Edelgard cries, and stands as if she doesn't know that when a sniper strikes she is to make herself as small a target as possible.

"Get down, Your Majesty!" 

The Duke, of course, falls for it, and of course throws himself between his emperor and the open window. Another arrow whistles through and grazes the Duke's leg so perfectly Hubert couldn't have faked it better; there is a scratch on the back of his calf just barely bleeding and a minor tear in his trousers. He'll dine out for months on the story of how he was injured valiantly protecting his Emperor, Hubert's sure of it. The Duke's men file into the streets to find the assassin, but if she was moving as quickly as Hubert knows she can she was already gone before the second arrow struck. 

Hubert allows the fuss that follows, because he must; allows one of the Duke's staff to clumsily bandage his arm, to bring him tea, allows those present to exclaim over his wound and the Duke to find every way possible to prove his own is far graver. His thoughts are miles away, of course, following a lone archer down a dark, empty street, but he is present enough to play his role and by the time he and Edelgard go to leave the Duke has promised both funds and forces to the fight against the church. Hubert kisses Edelgard's cheek and leaves her to her guards; he has a different destination tonight.

Bernadetta is waiting just where she's supposed to be, in one of a number of apartments in the city owned by the crown for one reason or another that Hubert uses for hideaways. In the fuzzy, honest place between the shock wearing off and the pain truly setting in he is struck by how lovely she is in this moment, flushed with adrenaline and clearly quite proud of herself, dressed in simple blacks that set off the pale of her skin and the purple of her hair.

"Are you okay?" she asks, and begins unbuttoning his cuff to roll up his sleeve before he can answer. Hubert isn't sure _how_ to answer, in truth; he's fine, the pain is nowhere near unbearable and Edelgard is going to get what she wants from the Duke, but he's sure that's not what Bernadetta wants to hear.

"It was a clean shot," he says, eventually, and hopes she'll assume the pain is why he took so long to answer and not that he feels struck nearly dumb by her hands on his arm. His hands are blackened from dark magic backlash and scars climb his wrists like strangling vines but she doesn't seem to mind or even really notice as she pushes his sleeve above the hastily-applied bandage. "I don't - "

"Hush," she says, and unwraps the bandage; her hands are shaking a little. "It doesn't look too bad."

"It was worse coming out than going in," he says.

"If you'd let me choose my own arrows - "

"You wouldn't have chosen distinctly Faerghan ones," Hubert says. "And I don't mind. A small price to pay."

Bernadetta rolls her eyes but whatever's on her mind she doesn't speak it aloud, just pushes him into the nearest chair. She pulls a needle and thread from her pocket and begins carefully stitching Hubert's wound shut; unnecessary, with an injury this size, but it's generally best with Bernadetta to let her decide how she needs to handle whatever she's feeling at any given time. A few stitches is also a small price to pay, for the success and for Bernadetta's continued peace of mind. The sensation of the needle piercing his skin again and again is an odd one - not unpleasant, not entirely, but Hubert is much more used to being magically healed and that hardly feels like anything at all. Hubert watches her as she works, and because his life and Edelgard's dreams so frequently depend on his observational skills he begins to...notice things. The way her teeth dig into her lower lip until it blanches might just indicate concentration, like the flush in her cheeks might just be from adrenaline, but there's a funny little unevenness to her breathing, and she's standing a little oddly, with her thighs pressed together. And, yes, there, she shifts a little, rubs her thighs together, and that's where the shiver in her breathing is coming from. So they have something in common, then, if that's how her body handles the rush of a task well done.

"Bernadetta," Hubert says, his voice pitched low the way he's coming to learn she likes, "how did it feel?"

"How did what," she starts, and looks away from her work to meet his eyes; her flush deepens. "Oh."

She looks away again so she can tie a knot and cut the thread binding Hubert's minor wound, and Hubert clenches his fist a few times to test it. There's pain, but not much, and her tidy stitches of course hold fast. Bernadetta stares at his hand, biting her bottom lip again, and doesn't meet his eyes again. They've done this enough Hubert knows without a doubt what she wants, but not yet so much she's bold enough to ask. 

"What reward have I earned for my bravery in the face of a surely mortal wound?" Hubert asks.

"Don't pretend you didn't like it," she says, and oh, this fresh blush reaches all the way to the tips of her ears. Hubert laughs, and though he tries to keep it gentle as always when he laughs for Bernadetta the blood is rushing through his veins like a river breaking its banks and he likely fails. She doesn't seem to mind, though, and comes easily enough when he reaches with his good arm to coax her into his lap.

"I don't think I'm the only one," Hubert says, and raises his hips just a little, just to brush against her and hear her sweet gasp. If he hadn't already figured out how affected she was he would know now, just from the heat of her, the way she grips at the arms of the chair so she can push down against him. 

"I - no," she says. "You weren't."

Hubert is a little surprised when Bernadetta kisses him, when she lifts one arm to wrap around his neck and pull him close, but only a little. He's set himself the task of learning her and he's always been observant. There is a shift in her voice, a change to the rhythm of her breathing, a half-moment before she does something that frightens her, and if he isn't careful that shift and that change are going to have him anticipating a kiss every single time. 

Once she's made her move Bernadetta loses herself quickly, rocking her hips against his poor trapped cock and teasing her tongue into his mouth when he groans. Hubert, as eager to give her what she wants as she is to take it, hurries to catch up with her, slipping his fingers up the smooth skin of her muscular thigh and pushing her underclothes aside so he can feel just how hot and wet she is, how badly she needs him. He had his suspicions, watching her in the heat of battle, but to know that she enjoys the doing of harm the way he does, that she won't hate him for it, is nearly as thrilling as simply getting to touch her like this in the first place.

"Oh," she gasps, breaking their kiss and arching her back to present him with the smooth column of her throat. "Your fingers are cold."

"They'll be warm soon enough," he says, and gives Bernadetta a moment to laugh at what an absurd line that was before he pushes two of his fingers into the hot, slick clench of her cunt. The way her laugh shivers into a high, sweet moan is beautiful, and Hubert nips at her throat just to see what other lovely noises she'll make for him. Of all the things he wishes to learn about her, this - every way he can touch her, every sound she makes - is his favorite, and will of course require the most intense study.

Bernadetta clutches at the back of his neck and his arm, too close to his wound but the pain is so exquisite Hubert can't imagine asking her to stop, or move. Can't imagine anything at all, because reality has his full attention. Bernadetta writhes on his fingers so he barely has to thrust at all, just let her fuck herself exactly the way she wants. She's so wet for him, nearly dripping, soaking his hand as he bites a possessive mark into her beautiful neck. He hates that she's still wearing her dress and he can't feel her heated skin against him, see the flush of exertion and pleasure spread down her chest, but there will be time for that later. 

Hubert shifts his hand so his thumb brushes the hardness of her clit in rhythm with her grinding and she bucks her hips, cries his name to the empty apartment, and rides him like _this_ was her goal all along when she began training for mounted combat. Bernadetta has beautiful thighs and it's a privilege to see them put to work like this, to be the cause of their tensing as she gets closer and closer to her peak. His cock is so hard it hurts almost as much as the wound in his arm but to pause even long enough to undo a button or two would be unthinkable. 

"That's it," Hubert says, against the bruise beginning to form at the base of her neck. They'll each have a wound to mark this night, and if he's lucky his will scar. Bernadetta stills for just a moment, her whole body stopping as she peaks and then moving again as it washes over her, grinding her cunt against Hubert's fingers to draw it out. Hubert nips at a fresh spot on her throat, just to make her shiver, and draws his fingers out of her while she gasps to catch her breath.

The stillness of the night settles around them like a cloak, protecting their tender moment from prying eyes and ears. Bernadetta shifts back so she isn't putting quite so much pressure on Hubert's cock, and then kisses him so hungrily the thoughtful gesture is entirely undone. But Hubert is nothing if not a patient man, and he simply holds her, allows himself to be kissed, allows himself to kiss her back, until she has calmed and smiles up at him with her eyes sparkling.

"Are you finished?" he asks.

"Not until you are," she says. "Take me to bed?"

Bernadetta is heavier than she looks, well-muscled from archery and riding, but Hubert is stronger than _he_ looks and he lifts her easily though he's glad the apartment is small and the bedroom close. Bernadetta laughs when he lifts her, always sweet and giddy in the afterglow, and again when he drops her onto the bed from high enough she bounces once or twice. Hubert loves to flirt, to tease, to take his time and undress her piece by piece, but he's reached the limit of his tolerance so he simply pulls her underclothes off when she lifts her legs and pushes her skirt above her waist. His cock nearly leaps out of his trousers as he undoes them, so desperate to be inside her, and he could swear Bernadetta licks her lips to see it.

Hubert isn't an especially vain man, but to know she enjoys the sight of him so sets heat flaring through him almost as insistently as the clench of her cunt or the sting of her arrow. He is clumsy in his haste to climb onto the bed between her legs but she's too busy gasping in pleasure as he pushes inside her to laugh at him and he is too thrilled by her body opening for him to care. There is perhaps no better feeling than being inside Bernadetta and it overwhelms him every time. Bernadetta hooks one leg around Hubert's back so he can slide in even deeper and he groans as he bottoms out. 

"Yes," Bernadetta says. "Hubert, please."

Hubert can barely catch his breath but of course he can't deny her, and he pulls out nearly all the way, so she whines as if she believes he will truly leave her, just so he can push back in and knock her breath away. This is not the time nor the mood for slow and sweet; Hubert fucks her hard, pushes her up the mattress until she braces a hand against the headboard, and so fast her moans are almost like sobs. Bernadetta throws her head back to show off the red mark on her neck, the imprint of Hubert's teeth still visible as it darkens to a bruise, and Hubert would be embarrassed but not incorrect to characterize the deep groan that tears from his throat as more of a growl.

Heat and pressure coil in Hubert's spine like the moment before a thunderstorm and his rhythm falters as he gets closer. Bernadetta, ever observant, reaches down to bring herself off and the way she tightens at the first brush of her fingers against her sensitive clit makes Hubert see sparks. He groans her name and spills inside her, the force of his orgasm taking him almost by surprise, and he is only just regaining his senses when she topples over the edge to join him with a sweet cry. Hubert is gentleman enough to collapse next to, rather than upon, her, and she rolls into his side for a cuddle as soon as his back hits the bed.

In the very few assignations Hubert had before Bernadetta, this was always the worst part. Euphoria dissipating, reality setting back in, and all of a sudden rather than a single unit chasing pleasure together he would be one of two distinct people with his own boundaries and concerns and rules, trying to navigate them against someone else's without revealing too much. But it's easy to hold Bernadetta, and to be held, and to laugh at the face she makes when she sits up to finally discard her wrinkled dress and be laughed at when he has to get out of bed to fully disrobe. And to have her beneath the covers, beautifully naked and, he is coming to understand, entirely his, somehow quiets the part of his mind that is always thinking to the next step, forming a plan and raising alarms when it hits something it doesn't know how to plan for. 

Hubert holds her, and kisses the top of her head, and listens to her breathing, and feels the way her heart beats, and considers whether or not he knows enough to know whether he's truly happy or not. and is nearly asleep when she speaks.

"The man you had me shoot," Bernadetta says, "was he a bad person?"

It isn't until she asks Hubert realizes she has changed categories in his head when he wasn't paying attention and he doesn't immediately know how much information to give her. Enemies, of course, get nothing but occasional falsehoods; targets, whatever they want to hear; allies and potential allies, some bespoke blend of truth and what they wish to hear. Bernadetta isn't quite any of those anymore, nor is she one of his agents (told exactly what they need to perform their task) or, of course, Edelgard (told nearly - _nearly_ anything she asks). Perhaps she is just the second woman in his life to merit her own category.

"No," Hubert says. "A bore, and a little pompous, ignorant like most of his ilk, but not particularly cruel or malicious. Just in the way"

"I - hm." There is a tremor in Bernadetta's voice, just a small one, and it makes Hubert's shrunken heart do something more complicated than simply beat in the hollow cavity of his chest. She is so much less timid and afraid now, in a thousand different ways, than when they first met, and as she sheds vulnerabilities like a bird in its molt each one she allows Hubert to see feels somehow more precious. The anxieties that remain, the farther she gets from her father's death, are the deep ones, the true ones, and knowing she trusts him enough to show him those is almost humbling.

"You didn't hurt him, really," Hubert says. "There wasn't even enough blood to dirty his socks."

Bernadetta sits up and Hubert very nearly asks her to lie back down; it's difficult enough to have a conversation as worn-out as he is without the distraction of her lovely skin, the curve of her breasts so perfectly shaped to his palms, the few red marks that haven't yet faded. But he holds his tongue and simply watches her think.

"I like this," she says, whispers it like a confession. "Not - this, of course, I like this a _lot_ , you're so - er. But I like the rest of it, too. Bernie doesn't usually get to feel powerful, and on the battlefield there's so much danger and distraction, but this is..."

"Thrilling," Hubert says.

"Yes! And it would be easy - I don't want to hurt people," she says. "Not unless they deserve it. I believe in Edelgard, I believe in _you_ , and I want to help. But I need you to promise they'll deserve it."

It would be easy to say they all do, and it wouldn't be a lie, because for Hubert anyone who stands in Edelgard's way _does_ deserve to be moved out of it as quickly as possible. Even easier to promise what she wants and simply keep her in the dark, fabricating the sins of whoever he needs her to point her bow at next so she can sleep at night. And if all he needed was another weapon in another hand to carry out his wishes, he might choose either of those; but he wants Bernadetta, in every way she'll have him.

"I promise I will only have you point your bow at the truly vile," he says. "And if you'd like, whenever I ask for your assistance I can tell you what exactly your target has done to those with less power than he, and you can decide for yourself. You have my word."

Bernadetta smiles, and looks around the room, and for a moment Hubert thinks she might get out of bed, collect her things, leave him alone here. But if that was ever her plan she rethinks it, and settles down next to him, rests her head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest. It's a simple gesture, a simple touch, but perhaps because it's been a long night, perhaps because of the weight of what she just promised him, perhaps only because Hubert is so unaccustomed to gentle, affectionate touch, he is briefly overwhelmed, and turns his eyes to the ceiling so she won't see them water.


End file.
